


make my home your home

by helloearthlings



Series: The Heart is Hard to Translate [6]
Category: King Falls AM (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Crushes, Fluff and Angst, Insecurity, M/M, Minor Injuries, TAZ Amnesty, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-19 04:23:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22205146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helloearthlings/pseuds/helloearthlings
Summary: “Did you…did you want to ask me about Sylvain?” Sammy asks, and even though Jack is at least six feet away, a table separating them, he can see Sammy swallow. “I mean, I know you’ve never met anyone like me before.”Jack hadn’t been going to cross the distance between himself and the staircase, but his legs start moving without any input from his brain. Maybe he’s imagining Sammy’s hesitant smile. It’s probably just a grimace. But Jack sees it all the same when he gets close enough to put an arm on Sammy’s shoulder.“If you ever want to talk about it, we can,” Jack tells him, fighting the urge to just slide his arms around Sammy’s waist and pull him closer. “But I don’t need to write it down. We can just talk as – as friends, okay?”
Relationships: Sammy Stevens/Jack Wright
Series: The Heart is Hard to Translate [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1575949
Comments: 15
Kudos: 119





	make my home your home

**Author's Note:**

> I had my first week of my new job, and wish I had actually worked on starting my novel idea today - but hey, I have the weekend left! Hope everyone enjoys this installment. I listened to the Amnesty music while writing it and god........it fucking slaps so hard thanks Griffin.

There’s only one tiny bottle of enchanted salve from Sylvain left on Jack’s shelf.

Jack can pretend all he wants to that he’s meticulously cataloguing the medical supplies stocked in his cellar for some general, inane, obsessive-compulsive reason, and most of Amnesty would probably believe him.

Jack knows he isn’t that great of a liar, though, and he gave up on lying to himself about important things a long time ago.

Jack is going to Sylvain tomorrow for the sole purpose of asking – perhaps even begging – for more medicine for Sammy. There’s no way of getting around the truth of the matter. Sure, Jack will have to try to get various enchanted objects while he’s there, both medications and probably weapons if he can swing it, but he’ll know why he’s really there.

Just for Sammy.

Jack carefully zips the small bottle in the front pocket of the backpack he’s cramming, trying to ignore how gentle he is even with something as small as the bottle itself.

The cellar itself seems to shrink around Jack.

Jack used to enjoy being in his cellar. It was barely a cellar, for one thing – it was a like an office, where his boxes of books and research was compiled all in one place. Boxes stacked high in all four corners of the room, papers fluttering, and his shelves of various enchanted objects kept safe from the prying eyes of Kepler, all waiting for the next time an Abomination crossed through the gate into their world.

It had been a place of refuge for him, not to mention a way not to be disturbed.

Now, Jack’s stomach turns whenever the shiny metallic operating table flashes in his line of vision, and all he can picture is blood pouring from Sammy’s back, and terrible whimpers of pain.

“Jack?”

Jack nearly jumps out of his skin when he hears Sammy’s voice, the night that Sammy arrived weighing so heavily in the corners of his mind.

Jack hasn’t been transported to the past, however – Sammy stands at the bottom of the staircase, hair tied back in a braid that’s entirely Ben’s doing, an unsure crease in his forehead as he regards the room.

Sammy hadn’t been down here since that night, Jack knows. The way Sammy pulls inward when his eyes land on the operating table makes Jack want to rush over to him and shield his eyes.

Jack is good at ignoring his instincts, and settles for smiling over at Sammy, whose own grin is tentative but seemingly happy to see Jack.

“Sorry if I scared you,” Sammy says, not quite entering the room, toeing the final step of the rickety staircase. “Ben said you’d be down here. I’m looking for a watering can and – well, you. We’re gardening and I…I thought you’d like to come help?”

Jack’s already dovetailing before Sammy can finish the sentence. “I’d love to – just let me finish packing.”

“Are you going somewhere?” Jack isn’t going to read into the disappointed dip in Sammy’s voice. 

“No, no,” Jack says, then has to correct himself. “Well – Sylvain.”

Sammy very nearly recoils backwards, and quite literally moves back a step on the staircase. His eyes, usually so soft and curious, turn guarded.

“Just for a couple hours, to get supplies,” Jack gestures around the room, the need to explain himself taking over. Most Amnesty residents get melancholy and perhaps a little resentful when a Pine Guard member goes to Sylvain, even for the briefest of times, since they will never be given the opportunity to go home again.

Jack knows perfectly well that isn’t the case with Sammy, though. It does not take a genius to figure out that Sammy’s life on Sylvain was far from picture-perfect. Whatever his life had been there, Sammy does not miss it.

Jack wants to know everything about what happened to Sammy in Sylvain – and not in the way that he usually does with residents. A million questions about the exactitudes of species and culture and the society of an alien planet. Jack would never ask Sammy to provide research for Jack’s teetering volumes of data.

Jack wishes he knew what Sammy’s childhood was like, how he grew up. What he’d done for work, or for fun. The people he loved, the people hated. The world he lived in, not as a case study but as a confidante.

More than anything, Jack wants to know what brought Sammy to him.

“I’ll be back by dinner,” Jack promises when Sammy’s stormy expression doesn’t change. “I – the salve for your back – there’s only a little left and it can’t be made on Earth. I’m just going to get you some more, and I’ll be right back.”

That gets Sammy’s mouth to go from a hard line to a slightly shaky smile. “Oh – thanks, Jack. Sorry, I just…Sylvain isn’t…I don’t like to think about it. But I’m sure you – I mean, you must go all the time.”

“I really don’t,” Jack tells him, wishing that Sammy would at least step into the room instead of hanging on the staircase. He seems to have moved a little closer again, at the very least. “They don’t like humans crossing over much – for obvious reasons. I’m only there out of necessity, and sometimes Ron or Ben makes the trip over. I haven’t been in six months or so.”

“You do research, though,” Sammy says, his eyes darting around to Jack’s books. Jack has a quick vision of burning the entirety of his life’s work to get that expression off of Sammy’s face, but it’s gone as quick as it comes. “About Sylvain. You must have –”

“Only half of it is about Sylvain, and I get most of that information from Amnesty residents. The rest is about the Abominations – and they certainly don’t come from Sylvain.”

Sammy nods slowly in understanding, though there’s still a reticence to his tightly knit brow. Or maybe it’s not so complex – maybe it’s just fearfulness.

“Did you…did you want to ask me about Sylvain?” Sammy asks, and even though Jack is at least six feet away, a table separating them, he can see Sammy swallow. “I mean, I know you’ve never met anyone like me before.”

Jack hadn’t been going to cross the distance between himself and the staircase, but his legs start moving without any input from his brain. Maybe he’s imagining Sammy’s hesitant smile. It’s probably just a grimace. But Jack sees it all the same when he gets close enough to put an arm on Sammy’s shoulder.

Sammy does lean closer – Jack’s not imagining that. He can’t be. Right?

“If you ever want to talk about it, we can,” Jack tells him, fighting the urge to just slide his arms around Sammy’s waist and pull him closer. “But I don’t need to write it down. We can just talk as – as friends, okay?”

Jack _can’t_ imagine Sammy’s smile this time. Even though it’s small, flitting across his face for only a moment, it must have been real. “I – okay. Thank you, Jack.”

Jack swallows, reminds himself that he’s a good person who isn’t going to take advantage of a new friend’s trust by doing anything monumentally fucking stupid and stroking his hair or kissing his cheek, and says “So, I believe that you were looking for a watering can?”

Sammy visibly relaxes, shoulders slumping comfortably. He’s wearing Jack’s rugby sweatshirt today, the blue one, Jack’s favorite. Jack used to wear it often, but it looks so much better on Sammy. “Yes – it’s the day for the tomatoes.”

“You’re so much better at this than I ever was,” Jack teases him, sidestepping him to walk up the staircase, Sammy following half a step behind. Jack shortens his pace so that they take the stairs simultaneously. “I’d forget all the time which plants I’d done even the day before.”

“You just need to write it down, Jack.”

“Well, I’d forget that, too.”

They talk good-naturedly as Jack scouts the Amnesty lobby for the larger pink and green polka-dotted watering can they use for the garden. The lobby is, surprisingly, empty – but then again, it’s such a nice day out, the summer evening bright and warm. Everyone must be out by the springs.

Jack only spares a few seconds of thought for the others, though. He spends most of his mental energy worrying about the ginger way Sammy holds his right side when he walks.

By the time they find the watering can and make it to the back lawn of Amnesty where Jack planted his small garden four years ago and tried with various amounts of success to keep up with it, the summer sun is positioned just behind the ridge of the Mount Kepler, casting the springs with a soft orange light.

Peals of laughter echo through the yard – it seems like all of the residents are taking advantage of the mellow evening. Reagan and Mary sit sunbathing next to the springs, while Katie, Dwayne, and Pete seem to be having some kind of extreme splashing contest in the water. There are a handful of residents having dinner on one of the picnic tables as well, and Herschel even has the grill put to use on the opposite side, Cecil at his side probably making inane commentary about the temperature of meat.

Jack doesn’t get to focus on the warmth of having everyone he takes care of content and happy in the summer night for long, though, because a blast of icy water hits his face in the next second. 

“Ben, what the _fuck_?”

It’s instinct by now to follow the noise of Ben’s cackling laughter, even as Jack’s blinded by the icy water, practically burning. He doesn’t need to see to anticipate Ben’s movements, though, and manages to open his eyes just in time to wrestle the hose from Ben’s small, wet hands and retaliate in kind.

“Jack – this is my good shirt!”

“Serves you right,” Jack doesn’t stop spraying at Ben until he’s drenched and making a yowling noise that means he’s admitted defeat.

Jack lets go of the hose, letting it stream next to the small garden patch. Ben, from the opposite end of the hill that the garden is mounted next to, pouts up at him with his big, sympathy-inducing eyes.

“Well, we have the watering can,” Sammy says from behind Jack, and Jack makes a face when he sees that Ben’s left Sammy entirely dry except for a slight misting. He grins at both Jack and Ben, though, holding the can out toward the hose. “I see you’re both more interested in torturing each other than the state of my cucumbers.”

Jack feels a heady rush of comfort and joy when Sammy says _my._

 _Calm the fuck down,_ Jack tells the part of himself that needs to shut up now and forever. _He’s talking about cucumbers, for God’s sake. Not you_.

“I can’t believe the cucumbers are your favorite,” Ben complains, but grabs the hose from the ground, sidestepping Jack to reach the watering can in Sammy’s hands all the same. He fills the can up, leaning heavily against Sammy’s side.

Even though it’s probably just to get him damp and in on the water-spraying fun, Jack can’t help the unearned twist of envy in his gut.

It’s not that Jack’s jealous of Ben – not really. He doesn’t feel like Ben is any closer to Sammy than he is. The two of them have spent most days with Sammy, all three of them together half the time.

Ben has maybe spent more hours with Sammy, especially in the past week – they’ve been watching romcoms as Sammy’s introduction to Earth culture. Jack’s noticed Ben clinging to Sammy’s arm in the same way he does to Jack when he’s done something that he thinks he needs to make up for.

Still, Jack feels as though the hours he and Sammy spend together are just as substantive, with a kind of intimacy that he can’t name and tries not to think about too hard.

What he does wish is that he could touch Sammy as easily as Ben does, innocent without even a thought as to how it could be perceived or understood.

Jack always overthinks, especially when it comes to touch. Especially when it comes to Sammy.

He just doesn’t want to hurt him.

“As long as I’m already wet…” Ben is, as always, unaware of the complexities weighing on Jack’s mind, and wiggles his eyebrows at the two of them before taking a running leap in the opposite direction, nearly landing on Dwayne as he hits the top of the springs. They’re just deep enough that Ben isn’t going to hurt himself, though Jack recognizes the flash of worry on Sammy’s face as one reflected in his own.

“He doesn’t have much patience for the plants,” Sammy turns to Jack with a conspiratorial smile as he hefts the watering can in his arms and begins to spread the water over the various patches, taking extra care to spray the tomatoes down.

“You could’ve stopped at _he doesn’t have much patience,_ ” Jack spares a grin in Ben’s direction before turning back to Sammy, who laughs quietly. “How is the romcom marathon, by the way?”

Sammy shrugs, but his eyes are light and mirthful. “I don’t know. I don’t understand half of it, and Ben overexplains the jokes until they’re not funny anymore and at that point, I’m just laughing at him.”

“Aren’t we all,” Jack shakes his head. “I’ll have to join in one of these times – I have _much_ better taste in movies than Ben.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Sammy shakes his head with a laugh, but his eyes meet Jack’s for just a second with a level of seriousness. “You should, though. Join us.”

Jack’s heart seizes in his chest. All he’s wanted to do this week is spend each day, each _hour,_ with Sammy, but he holds himself back. He doesn’t need to overwhelm Sammy with his eccentricities and idiosyncrasies and endless mess of _feeling_.

Besides, Jack has been getting permits and IDs and prepping for the next Abomination appearance. There’s never a short list of things Jack needs to do for the day.

“I will,” Jack promises nonetheless. Sammy’s eyes light up. Jack shouldn’t read into that.

The evening continues, Sammy shifting his attention to the rest of the plants, especially the lavender and begonias. Sammy likes the way the lavender smells; Jack notices how he sits closest to small purpose patch and breathes deeply.

Jack sits next to him, and eventually Ben comes back to drip on them before splaying out on the hillside, taking in the last rays of the sun that night.

This is how Jack likes the lodge best, with the pressure in his shoulders dissipating as he sees the hard-won result of everything he does. These people are all alive because of Jack. _Sammy_ is alive because of Jack.

Jack purposefully regards the rest of Amnesty instead of Sammy, but whenever Jack’s attention slips, his mind wanders to Sammy, and his eye follows.

Sammy lays on his back against the hillside, eyes closed and fluttering like he might be drifting off to sleep. He’s taken Jack’s sweatshirt off, which is a rare enough occasion, bunched up as a pillow for his head. The braid in his hair droops and frizzes against the fabric, but that doesn’t make him any less –

Jack stares at the springs determinedly to stop his mind from wandering any further in that direction.

The golden hue of the sky turns to a pinkish-grey as the sun sets behind the mountain, and Mary starts the parade of Amnesty residents in to the warm lodge and to bed. Ben is one of the first to follow, yawning and tripping over himself as he kisses the top of Jack’s head sloppily in goodnight, and then goes to hug Sammy as well.

Sammy doesn’t quite sit up to hug Ben, but Jack sees him smile lazily as he says goodnight. Sammy hoists himself up after Ben leaves, and Jack moves the few feet closer when he sees Sammy’s painful wince. He holds his right side with a short gasp of breath.

“Sammy? You okay?”

Sammy winces up at him, almost apologetic as his eyes go between the spot on his side and Jack’s face. “I think it’s my ribs, but I don’t know. I remember you said a couple of them were cracked but there wasn’t much you could do –”

“I can try,” Jack says, and without consulting his brain, his mouth gets out “How about you stay in my room tonight? That way you don’t have to take the stairs again, and I can see what I can do about your ribs.”

Sammy doesn’t quite meet his eye – _of course he doesn’t, why would you even offer that, you moron?_ – but then, his voice is quiet and nearly marveling. “I – that would be great, Jack, but – where will you sleep?”

“I don’t sleep much anyway,” Jack breathes, technically not untrue. That doesn’t stop his heart from moving from his chest to his throat and back again all within the same instant. “C’mon – I’ll help you up.”

Sammy leans on Jack’s shoulder for the two minutes it takes them to get back inside the lodge and into Jack’s room, just adjacent to the kitchen. Jack helps Sammy onto the bed and tries not to think about the softness of Sammy’s hair and the way his sweatshirt brushes against Jack’s skin. Sammy’s face screws up slightly in discomfort before he squirms to lay flat on his back.

“It might hurt more because you’re sleeping on your stomach,” Jack says softly, flipping the lamp on before he sits on the edge of the bed. Sammy’s breathing is labored, and Jack hopes there’s something, anything, that he can do to help get that expression off of Sammy’s face. “Has this been happening for a while?”

Sammy doesn’t open his eyes. “Didn’t want to bother you.”

Jack doesn’t realize that he’s touching Sammy’s hand until he looks down, and at that point, he’s already committed to it and can’t take it back. So he might as well keep his hand light on top of Sammy’s at least for another second. “You’re _never_ bothering me. Ever.”

Sammy makes a face, and Jack gets the impression that Sammy doesn’t believe him. Not for the first time, Jack wishes he could turn back time to have a long and possibly angry conversation with whoever told Sammy that he shouldn’t ask for help when he needs it.

“Can I look?” Jack asks before he touches, and even though Sammy nods, a familiar rush of guilt passes through him when he lifts Sammy’s shirt to press a hand gently against each rib.

 _Doctor patient doctor patient,_ Jack reminds himself. _I’m just figuring what’s wrong. It’s a necessity. It’s not terrible or wrong, Ben would do it without a second thought, c’mon, just be a little more like Ben –_

“I can try the same tincture we used on your back initially,” Jack says, taking note of the two ribs that Sammy whimpers in pain when Jack touches. “It’s imbued with Sylvan magic, so it should at least help the pain even if it doesn’t do anything for the break itself.”

Jack hesitates, wondering whether or not he should add that he’ll ask for more tomorrow when he gets to Sylvain when he asks about the salve. He decides against saying anything now, moving to rummage through the handful of supplies he keeps in his bedside table. He doesn’t want to upset Sammy again.

“Thank you,” Sammy mumbles, eyes still screwed closed, as Jack gently unscrews the vial to press against Sammy’s side, just heavy enough that the droplets will stick. “That feels better.”

“How’s your back?” Jack asks and Sammy makes a noncommittal noise that Jack’s learned over the past month means _not worth you worrying about._ Jack worries anyway, though. “Do you want me to take a look? If you wanted to take your charm off, I could see if your wings…”

Sammy’s eyes fly open, and Jack knows immediately that he’s made a mistake by even suggesting it. There’s a panicked, nearly crazed energy to Sammy as he grips Jack’s wrist.

“No, please,” Sammy whispers. All Jack wants to do is lean down and embrace him and tell him everything was going to be okay. “Please don’t.”

“I won’t, I won’t,” Jack says quickly, though he wonders if Sammy’s taken the small leather charm off of his wrist in all of the time he’s been here. He hopes so, he hopes that when Sammy’s alone in the springs – because Jack has caught on to the fact that he only ever dips into the springs when the rest of Amnesty is still sleeping – that he takes care of himself and his body. Both of his bodies.

Jack would help if Sammy ever asked – but why should Sammy ask?

Sammy’s eyes are still wild with fear, and Jack quickly tries to rectify his mistake. A joking tone should work, right? Something light, but not a complete non-sequitur.

“You’re the first Sylvan I’ve met who enjoys looking human,” Jack says, keeping his voice purposefully airy and not at all serious. “We do appreciate that you’re not disgusted by our species – even if we probably deserve it.”

Sammy is quiet for a moment before he says, the gravity in his tone apparent and heavy, “You don’t deserve it. Why would I want to look like the planet that hates me and not the people who are kind to me?”

Jack’s breath catches, mouth suddenly going too dry to speak. Sammy screws his eyes closed, mouth creasing in a hard, thin line. Pained. Jack knows that Sammy’s in so much pain.

It’s an aching sort of wonderful to hear that Jack has helped take some of Sammy’s pain away, through sheer effort of kindness and care – but Jack knows Sammy has barely experienced that before. He doesn’t know that Jack’s care will fall short in the end, it always does. Jack doesn’t know how to love anyone the way they want.

And he cannot, _cannot_ take advantage of Sammy’s pain. Sammy needs him, he needs Jack to be sweet and kind and take care of him, he certainly doesn’t need Jack fucking that up with his messy feelings. Because even though it feels like Jack never stops thinking about Sammy, and everything he does is out of affection for Sammy –

What if there’s something wrong with the way Jack loves that he can’t help? A deficiency of some kind? A flaw in his system?

Jack realizes in the next second that he is, as was always inevitable, holding Sammy’s hand. And Sammy, though his eyes are still shut tight, hasn’t twitched away from Jack’s grip.

“You should – should try to get some sleep,” Jack slowly releases Sammy’s hand after trying and failing to say something more eloquent. “But Sammy, I – I’m _so_ happy you’re okay here. And – and I hope you know that you always, _always_ will be.”

Sammy’s voice barely echoes above a whisper. “I know.”

He doesn’t sound like he’s pretending.

“Here, I’ll get the lights,” Jack stands up, and then before he can help it, because he really does want to stop being so self-involved and always do what’s best for Sammy, and maybe Jack is what’s best for Sammy, even if it’s not in the exact way Jack will probably dream about tonight, “maybe I’ll…I’ll ask Ron if he would go to Sylvain in my place tomorrow. So I could spend time with you and Ben.”

The smile that flashes across Sammy’s face isn’t imaginary, and when Sammy opens his eyes, Jack knows there is genuine affection there.

“You’ll watch romcoms with us,” Sammy says like it’s a given, and Jack nods with a short laugh. “Maybe you can explain why humans seem to fall in love with people they don’t even like.”

“You’re asking the wrong person,” Jack can’t help but laugh, because Sammy is just so funny, a deadpan kind of humor that isn’t trite or rehearsed like so many others. “Have you watched When Harry Met Sally yet?”

Sammy shakes his head and Jack sighs, overdramatic on purpose, and flips off the light. “The boy has no taste.”

Jack moves to his desk, turning on only his smallest reading light. He doesn’t want to keep Sammy up, but he should try to get some work done since he won’t be sleeping anyway.

“Is this too –”

Sammy interrupts him before he can finish the thought.

Jack can only see the outlines of his face, even as his voice addresses Jack with the kind of concern that Jack thinks he must’ve been holding back from speaking. “Jack – that night – in the forest.”

“That night,” Jack feels his breath drain away with sudden anxiety, immediately knowing what Sammy means.

“Did I – did I sound –” Sammy hesitates, then quickly says, “Ben promises I didn’t, not really, but –”

Jack moves to the side of the bed again, and even though he is conscious of his thought and movement this time, sets his hand on top of Sammy’s, anyway. He remembered the exact spot, lightly places the tips of his fingers against Sammy’s knuckles, and doesn’t press harder.

Sammy deserves for Jack to be okay with touching him. Sammy needs to be touched – to be _treated –_ gently.

“Like an animal,” Sammy gets out after a choked noise. “Did I sound like an animal?”

_A piercing shriek rippling through the trees – the air around Jack’s ears stilling until he’s consumed by the noise – hitting his heart, twisting his insides – someone hurt, someone hurt in the woods – something shattering and nearly supernatural about the sound, but so painfully human, too – someone needs Jack’s help._

“No,” Jack says, and Sammy begins to speak again but Jack already knows what he’s going to say. “I’m not saying that to make you feel better, either. You didn’t, Sammy. You sounded like a person – maybe Sylvan, maybe human – but a _person.”_

Sammy makes a small noise of protest like he doesn’t quite believe Jack, but Jack shushes him before he can speak again. He sits like that for a long time, with his hand on top of Sammy’s. Neither of them moves an inch.

Jack isn’t sure how long they stay like that, but when he hears a quiet snuffling, he knows Sammy is asleep. 


End file.
